


Part Four: Things That Go Bump In the Night

by House_of_Ares, vampirekilmer



Series: Black Snake Moan [4]
Category: Marvel Avengers Movies Universe
Genre: Altered Mental States, Battle Trance, Berserker Episode, Blackout Rage, Breath Control, Broken Bones, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, Orgasm Control, PTSD, Paranoid Delusions, Violence, physical violence, violence I am being serious yo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:20:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/493760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirekilmer/pseuds/vampirekilmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: When you go on an op, sometimes you end up not being alone out there after all.<br/>Coulson's got issues; Barton is pretty good at dealing with them. Sometimes it isn't easy.</p><p>“Why are you sneaking behind my back with my shit?"<br/>"Why’re you so pissed off about it?" he asks hotly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Part Four: Things That Go Bump In the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Часть 4: о том, как ночью всё становится значительно хуже](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1138415) by [Silmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silmary/pseuds/Silmary)



Coulson listens to the doors slamming shut, the pipes clanking as the hot water turns on, still sitting in the middle of the living room floor. In the kitchen, on the counter, is a bottle and he doesn’t even bother with a glass.  
 _  
What the hell just happened? What did he do?_ _  
_  
His brain struggles through the blur of things, trying hard to piece together what he had done, what had happened. There’s still a buzz and a hum in his ears that makes him shudder and fight to focus.  
  
 _Barton was being loud...... yelling... wrestling to the floor... pinning him, hand on his throat...Barton tapped out...no, just stopped fighting....looked shocked...bucking and pinning again.... and then sliding back to feel...._  
  
A second gulp and he sets the bottle on the counter and walks to the bathroom door, knocks on it hard.  
  
“The  _fuck_ , Coulson, leave me alone," is the muffled response from inside.  
 _  
….inside of his thighs pressed against the hard bone of Barton’s hips to pin him...._ _  
….the unmistakable sensation of Barton’s hard cock grinding up against his ass..._  
  
“Barton,” and his voice is a warning, a growl, a threat.  
  
There’s a muttered reply, “Fuck you very much, sir....”  
 _  
….force the door open... __  
….yank the curtain back, shut off water... __  
….a handful of shaggy blond hair, twisting his fingers and pulling forward hard.... __  
….pulling, sliding on slick tiles towards the bedroom...... __  
_  
Clint struggles and grabs Coulson's arm to try to break the grip, but the shower floor’s slick, and he stumbles over the tiled lip, feels his big toe snap where he's broken it a handful of times before. He's shaking in pain and rage and fear and fuck all else because Coulson, the mildest guy in SHIELD, who wouldn't say shit if he had a mouthful, is hauling him around naked like a fucking doll.  
  
  
"I am _ really_ fucking tired of this shit, Barton! If you've got something you want to say to me then you've got about five seconds!" The purple monstrosity of a tie is still draped over the nightstand, rumples and knot still in it, and he grabs it with his free hand.  
Clint knows he's got no qualms about using it, and all he can do is stand there, keeping weight off his toe and hoping to fucking christ that his cock doesn't twitch and give him away.  
Coulson drags him to the bed, getting another strangled little cry when his toe is dragged, and turns him, shoves him to sitting, and he knows better than to fight anymore. Still, the tie is knotted around his wrists, not terribly tight, but enough.  
"Why are you sneaking behind my back with my shit?"  
"Why’re you so pissed off about it?" he asks hotly.   
  
  
He can _ feel  _Barton bristling again and he grabs his hair again and pulls back till he's practically leaning over the other man to re-establish eye contact.  
"I thought this was all some practical joke until about five minutes ago when I wrestled you to the ground and you popped a boner." He pulls a little harder on his hair, fingers flexing to tighten his grip till Barton's eyes water.  
"Fucking A, you were grinding on me like some cheap Korean hooker!  What do you expect?"  
He lets go of Barton's hair and puts a hand in the middle of his damp chest to push him over onto his back. The pistol’s on the nightstand, and he drops the clip, racks it back to check the chamber.  
It's not a hooker but an alpha dog that leans over and straddles him again, teeth clenched and lips pulled back as he presses the muzzle into the soft skin under Clint's chin.  
"Let me make this clear to you. You will tell me. Now." Coulson's mouth is hovering over the exposed side of Clint's neck, and he has the overwhelming urge to bite and mark his territory.  
He can feel Barton’s heart hammering, see the evasive look in his eyes again.  It must be nauseating, he knows, but he doesn’t care.  
"I kinda liked it."  
"Liked what?" he growls against Barton's neck, managing to not touch him.  
This is possibly about to get ugly, so he shifts slightly to where his knees just press into Barton's ribs, holding him still and making the point again about who's in control.  
It isn't what he'd planned, but fuck if he's about to back down now.  
There’s the slightest strangled noise and he’s not sure if Clint knows he cleared the chamber or not.  
"All of it," Barton grunts, and then there are fists hitting his belly and Barton _bites_.

  
He grunts at the blow; it’s not very hard given the distance and his bound hands, but the teeth rip a savage yell from him and he presses the empty pistol harder into his chin as he jerks back and feels skin tear, left fist coming in hard with a hook to the jaw.   
He can feel the blood dripping down the side of his face and for a brief second there's a little voice in the back of his head that reminds him he hasn't done this in years before everything becomes eerily quiet.   
  


_ pain, warm slick blood down jaw and throat _

_ pain is weakness leaving the body _

_ kill, subdue, close the gap, finish the fight _

_ any tool at hand, hands, elbows, pistol, hit _

_ (don’t kill) _

  
Coulson flips the pistol to grip the barrel and backhands Barton  hard  with the grip before tossing the Sig down by the splatter of blood from the other man's mouth. A hard right hook knocks his head back the other direction, but it's Phil's blood that his knuckles smear across Clint's face.  
Calloused fingers wrap tight around neck and he squeezes, pupils blown as he stares down at Barton with a disturbingly blank expression.  
  
His primal side is screaming for blood and dominance, and when he still doesn't have a sound out of Barton he loosens his grip on his throat, only to replace it with his teeth angled directly over his trachea.  
His blood’s mixed with Barton's but they taste the same and he licks at it around his own teeth, claws at the soft skin of his belly and he digs the fingers of one hand into the tendons there till they release.  
"Submit," he growls out against Clint's throat.  
  
  
This is fucking terrifying, all because of a fucking sock and a joke tie and Coulson's bleeding on him and there's blood running out of his mouth and over his tongue.  He can't even pant with the grip around his throat, can't stop how he bucks his hips up, trying to rub on Coulson's leg because he's so fucking hard it hurts.  He twists a hand to claw up at belly, and thrashes, feeling his face swell and his eyes start to ache.  If he weren't hard he'd probably piss himself, and he  _wants._  
He sucks in a whistling breath as soon as the pressure lets up, and oh, God, the teeth.  It was like being savaged by a wolf somehow.  He would never - he never gives up, never surrenders, they'd have to kill him first, but the sight of Coulson so intent and licking blood and the way it runs between the white - fuck, he wants to give it all up.  He bucks his hips up again and rubs on thigh; there's pain all through him, jangling his nerves, and he shudders violently.  
"I give, I give," he rasps, and the shaking is getting harder.  "I submit, just - _ fuck!_"  
  
He feels the tension leave Barton's body and he releases his neck to hover over him, mouth and teeth smeared with their blood.  "Mine."  
There's a rational side of his brain trying to break through, trying to bring him back. But the blood tastes so good, tinged with fear and submission, and he licks the dribble coming from the corner of Barton's mouth, not even noticing the open wound on his own face.  
The other man holds perfectly still while he carefully licks at the smears, cleaning him up. No real purpose, but instinct tells him it's right, and something deeper revels in the carnage.  
"Mine," he says and lowers his body to drape hot and heavy over Barton's.  
  
Clint goes as slack as he can, his breathing coming in harsh snatches, and it's such a fucking relief to give in.  When Coulson lies on him, he shudders and arches and groans again, his wrists pinned between them, and all he can do is lick the blood inside his mouth and at the corner of his lip.   
"Fuck, yes," he mutters, eyes rolling back.  "Hit me again."  
  
That desperation in Clint's voice settles low in the pit of Coulson's stomach, hot and almost sick feeling because he hasn't done this in so long and never with Clint, but there's no way he could stop now. He takes a breath and lets go that last little bit of rational thought, gives in to the voice.  
He sits up and back, deliberately trapping Barton's hips so he can't wiggle free, takes his still bound hands and lifts them over his head and out of the way.  
It's a left cross this time, straight on the jaw and it feels so good to break someone like this again.  
There‘s a twisted sense of  _right_ in this and Coulson smiles, teeth and mouth still bloodied - he can taste it. He feels Barton trying to grind against him, trying to get off, but  _he’s_ alpha and that won't happen until he says it does.  
He slides off the bed, smacks Barton's hard dick one time with his open hand, and then pulls him upright by the tie binding his wrists. "Down," he snarls, and doesn't hesitate to kick a knee out when it doesn't happen fast enough, Barton grunting when his knees hit the floor.  
Coulson grabs his face, pinches his cheeks so his mouth opens half way and fresh blood dribbles down the inside of his wrist, hot and slick.  
  
The blow to his jaw feels like it knocked it half-off and the slap on his dick makes it flag a little.The fact that he's kneeling, though - it's so much like his jerk-off fantasy from that morning, his cock is ignoring the pain and he spits a little more blood over wrist and looks at Coulson, then away.  
  
There's a look of defiance still burning in his eyes and it makes Coulson snarl and hook his thumb over Barton's bottom teeth and jerk his chin forward, head back, and open even more. Blood trickles straight down the back of his throat, makes him sputter for a second.  
His own dick is hard as a rock, and he uses his free hand to strip off his boxers and grab hold of it, stroke it a few times and then rub the thick head across the blood on Barton's mouth.  
"You gonna behave now?" he asks, tugs a little harder on Clint's aching mouth so that the dampness in his eyes coalesces and runs down cheeks.  
  
He groans roughly in his throat; it feels like his jaw is tearing off when Coulson jerks at him that way.  Coulson's dick is right there and when he rubs it over mouth it pushes lip against teeth and he winces.  His lips are already swelling like he's got marbles under there, and he looks up hazily, groans.  
 "Maybe."  
  
….Let go of chin, press knee to chest, grab, the pistol, pull back the hammer right next to ear. There’s genuine fear in his eyes that gets him harder, makes his balls ache.  The barrel fits nicely in the indent of temple.   
"How 'bout now?"  
  
The  _snick_ of the hammer jump-starts his heart again and his hands are starting to go tingly with apprehension.  He barely touches his tongue to his battered lips, drags his eyes up.  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Good boy."  
He shoves in; Barton gags and he shudders at the feeling; it must be damn painful.  
"This is what you needed, isn't? Someone to fucking put you on your knees, give you something better to do with that smart mouth of yours."  
He can see Barton's hips stuttering, feel him arching, and looks down to see he's just as hard and there's precum smeared across his stomach, mixing with the blood. Coulson shifts his stance and moves his right foot over until he can slide it under Clint's balls, giving him something to grind against.  
"That what you were looking for?"  
  
_It's sick that he's doing this, so turned on when his face feels like it's been broken open and he's drooling blood and spit over his chin._    
  
He pushes just _ that_ much further into his throat, occludes it completely for a second before he pulls back and fucks shallowly into Barton's mouth, blood streaked up the length of his dick.  
He grabs Barton's head where he can actually support his neck a little, make the angle straighter and he's growling now, knee against Barton's chest and making it that much harder to breathe.  
His foot arches up to crush against Barton's balls, and he knows it hurts.   
"You don't come till I say."  
  
There's a choking noise at the back of Barton's throat, but he fucks right through it, making him take his dick down his throat.   
When Barton looks up at him, pupils blown impossibly wide and eyes wet he loses it. Starts to come, and moans, pulls out to let the first bit of jizz splat across Barton's bloodied face, then shoves back in his mouth.  
His hips are almost grinding against jaw and he feels like he's going to pass out because it's so damn good. His balls ache and he's still coming, the blood in Barton's mouth starting to blur to pink.  
With a final shudder and thrust he's done, hand still cradling the back of Clint's head and he pulls his half limp dick out of his mouth and drops to his knees. The now warm barrel traces shakily down his cheek and under that cut jaw, dragging a path through come and blood.  
The tip settles right under his chin and Coulson grinds his free palm against Barton's aching dick before stroking it roughly, looking him dead in the eye.  
" _Now _ you can come."  
  
He swallows reflexively, desperate, panting and still drooling, his cock still - unbelievably - just north of half-mast since his balls were released.  
The pistol does the rest, tips his head back and the dull throb it sets off in his face makes him lurch into Coulson's palm.  That rough stroking makes him curl his toes and there's another sharp bite of pain, and he tips his forehead onto Coulson's shoulder as his breath hitches and he starts bucking into the tight grip.  
  
"That's it," Coulson says, coming out of the haze and the strokes getting a bit more even, the pressure firmer. He can feel where Barton’s mouth is pressed against him; drool, come, and blood dripping down his chest.  
  
He groans through his sore throat, fisting his hands in the tie, and he's close, the pressure's just right \-   
It's going to take more, though, and he makes a pained little noise as he tips his head up again; this is going to suck.  As sharply as he can, he drops his jaw against Coulson's shoulder and his teeth meet with an agonizing clip, lights flashing in his head as he chokes out a  _fuck_ _._  Coulson stops jerking him, apparently in surprise, and it doesn't even fucking matter - he comes spastically, seizing up between Coulson and the bed, and it's hard enough to gray out his vision.  
  
Barton slumps forward against him, still shaking and rolling his hips half way as he comes hard, most of his weight pressed against Coulson. The gun is still in his hand, the barrel slid down and now pressed beside his adam’s apple. Something about having a pistol to his asset’s neck snaps him back to the present and he jerks back hard, the pistol falling to the side and Barton slumping till he’s almost sprawling over him.  
He pushes him back against the bed, leaving him there covered in blood, sweat, and come. The pistol is ditched on the chest of drawers and he’s in the bathroom, door slammed shut and shower on before Barton can come around enough to look up.  
  
He's pushed back roughly against the side of the bed, and his ears are still buzzing, keeping time with the throbbing in his face, when Coulson disappears into the bathroom.     
    _The fuck_ , he thinks, and slowly creeps onto the bed, not even caring about the sticky puddle of spit and blood on the bedspread.  He's been hurt before during sex - hell, he got off on it - but he hasn't been immediately ditched afterward.  He just lies there on his back and counts the throbs with his eyes shut.  Maybe when Coulson gets out, he'll drag himself off for a real shower; he's a fucking mess.  If he can just sleep, he might do that instead.   
    He's not looking forward to work tomorrow.  
  
Under the hot water he scrubs hard, gets every trace of Barton and what they’d done off his skin till all he can smell is cheap hotel soap. As long as he keeps moving and thinking one task ahead he can keep his brain from thinking too much about what just happened.  
There’s some first aid supplies in the bottom of his shaving kit, and he towels off before working on his face. The bite isn’t too bad; no torn muscle, just a bit of ripped-up skin he cleans thoroughly with betadine before putting a couple of steri-strips on with trembling hands.  
 _Fuck_.   
It's been years since he lost it like that, and now of all people Barton was the one who had to deal with it. _ FUCK_ _._ He digs out the bottle of Vicodin and swallows two dry, grimacing in the mirror. When he opens the bathroom door, Barton is curled up in the bed with his back turned to him - he grabs a clean pair of boxers out of the top of his bag and heads into the living room without a word.   
There’s half a bottle of Jack Daniels on the counter and he rips the top off, taking three huge gulps from it before setting it down, coughing slightly. The sofa will be cold without so much as a sheet, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to face Barton right now, and by the time he lays down he’s passed out cold.

He's really expecting Coulson to come back to the bed and maybe he'll get a little bit of kindness; even when he had ferocious, pissed-off, bloody-noses sex with Natasha, there was always sleeping together and little touches, because it wasn't personal, just working off the anger of the job.   
 Coulson spends a long time in the bathroom, though, and he's half-asleep when he hears the door open.   
It takes awhile for him to get the energy up to go in there, and he looks at himself in the warped mirror.  Christ, he's a mess; his lips look like Angelina Jolie's after a collagen injection and a bath in blood.  There's faint bruising on both sides of his jaw that's going to look atrocious tomorrow, and a disgusting mixture of blood, come and saliva that's flaking down his chest as far down as he can see in the mirror.   
He gets carefully into the shower and kneels in there, and turns the water on.  It's tepid again, all the fucking hot water gone, and he goes to all fours and lets it beat on his back for a few minutes before he kneels and picks up the sliver of soap to wash.   
The face is the worst, of course, and he can only use his fingertips to coax the mess loose. When that's done, he soaps his neck and chest over and over, and spits; before it goes down the drain he sees that it's clear, so his cheek must've stopped bleeding.   
 He doesn't get out until the water goes cold enough he's shivering, and the only towel is still half-wet, so he dries as much as he can and limps back toward the bedroom.   
The Vicodin on the counter catches his eye, and he takes two, crunches them gingerly between teeth that don't feel broken, and makes his way out.   
Coulson's not in the bed.   
He looks into the little living room, half-afraid he's been abandoned here, but he can see Coulson on the couch.  He's tempted to put his woobie over him, and prods a sore tooth with his tongue.   
_Fuck him, _ he tells himself, and crawls into bed.  As soon as the Vicodin hits, he sleeps.


End file.
